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Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Things That Go Bump in the House

You could call him the house-wight. I first encountered him directly in a dream last year. (And yes, he's a he, whatever that means.)

That's how I learned his name. His name says a lot about him (and, probably, something about me, as well). When you know someone's name, it's a bond. Whether you will or whether you won't, it makes a relationship which, like all such, needs ongoing maintenance.

These last few days, I've been hearing things fall in the house. I get up, I go look: nothing. It isn't Craig: he's not here. It isn't the cat: he's asleep on the bed. Yes, the house vibrates when buses hit big potholes on Lake Street, but it's not pothole season yet. (Ah, the joys of urban spring.) Yes, the house ticks and pops when the temperature falls below zero. But those sounds I know, and this isn't them. Ice falling from the eaves? No, these are indoor clatters, I'm sure of it. I'm hearing things fall in rooms where nothing seems to be falling. If we call it the house-wight, that makes as much sense as anything.

A little guy with a beard and shining eyes? Shadows sliding in the far corners of vision? My human mind connecting up stray incidents into patterns that don't exist? A subtle way of externalizing my mental and emotional relationship with my environment? All of the above?

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Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Anthony Gresham
    Anthony Gresham says #
    Back when I still lived in my parent's house I would notice sounds when I was in the house alone. Thump noises like something fel
  • T-Roy
    T-Roy says #
    Some of them prefer oatmeal with a pat of butter.
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Ah, yes: it makes sense that the preferred offering would vary from wight to wight. (We have our preferences, why wouldn't they?)
  • Anne Newkirk Niven
    Anne Newkirk Niven says #
    Well, of *course* you didn't give away his name. (He would have given you a lot of trouble for doing that.)

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Nisse

I was standing at the till of our neighborhood Scandinavian store. (I live in Minneapolis, where we have such things.) The cashier was ringing up my purchase when the cash register ran out of receipt tape.

“This will take just a second,” she said, and began to put a new roll in.

It didn't take just a second. She fiddled and fiddled with it, and the tape just would not go in.

“What's wrong with me today?” she said. “I've done this hundreds of t—“

She stopped. Her squinched features relaxed into understanding. In an undertone, more to herself than to me, she said: “The nisse.”

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